


In the Water

by betts



Series: Red Wings [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biology Inaccuracies, Breathplay, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Light BDSM, Menstrual Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rape Fantasy, Recreational Drug Use, Semi-Public Sex, WTFfic, admirable service top bellamy blake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-06 14:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16389242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts
Summary: When Clarke's Ark-issued IUD expires, she gets her first period in five years. Bellamy, somehow, knows exactly how to help.Winner of the 2018 Bellarke Fan Work Award for Most Underrated One-Shot





	In the Water

**Author's Note:**

> Baby's first canonverse fic! Set sometime season 3-4ish in Arkadia. 
> 
> I'm a slut for menstrual h/c. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

 

* * *

 

On the Ark, there’d been a system: immediately following your first menstrual cycle, you went to the clinic and had a little device inserted in you to keep it from happening again, which then kept you from having a baby until you grew older and submitted an application to the council. Once the application was approved, you’d have the device removed, and you could have a baby. Then, once you gave birth, you could make a follow-up appointment for a hysterectomy, because you weren’t allowed to have another baby anyway. The devices needed replaced every five years or so. In effect, periods weren’t really a thing on the Ark.

Clarke got her device inserted when she was thirteen, and she completely forgot about it. Until now.

She starts feeling off one morning while she’s getting dressed. Her belt won’t reach the right notch. It’ll only go one bigger. When she looks at herself in the mirror, her stomach is wider than usual like she’s eaten a full meal recently, and she swears she has a bit of a double chin. She feels weirdly heavy, kind of sloshy, and uncomfortable in her own skin.

Later, around dinner, she’s dying for some fresh meat, not this jerky shit and vegetables they live on now. She needs something between her teeth that has recently bled. She drops her fork and pushes her plate away, stands from the table and marches out of the mess. On her way, she picks up a supply bag and straps a gun to her thigh. She’s already past the guards when Bellamy catches up with her, falling easily in step.

“Where you headed, princess?”

“To kill something.”

A normal person would ask a follow-up question, like, for example, why? But not Bellamy Blake. He only says “Okay,” and follows her lead.

She wants a mammoth. A massive beast. There are no mammoths though, so she settles for a deer. It’s small but not young. A runt. She and Bellamy are silent as they hunt, each lying on their stomachs on the soft mossy floor of the forest. Bellamy is tracking the animal through the scope of his rifle. She can feel the heat of his body beside her. She can smell him, sweat and leather. A flicker of a thought crosses her mind: Bellamy between her legs, fucking her hard and fast, silent, teeth gritted. Right here, right where they lay. She’s never thought anything like it, only applies sexual thoughts to people who have openly expressed interest in her. Bellamy never has. To him, she’s probably a sexless being, a friend at best, an ally at worst. He would never think that way of her.

He shoots. The deer falls. They eat steak that night.

Later, alone in her bunk, she touches herself. It’s not something she does often; she usually falls asleep thinking about strategy and tactics, how to survive another year, or sometimes, another day. She’s never felt herself so wet. Must have gone nearly all day like this. Hunting shouldn’t have turned her on so much, but there was something about Bellamy carrying a carcass over his shoulders as they headed back to camp that ruined her. She tries to think of faceless people while she brings herself off, imagines them naked, moving together, but the fantasy changes — Bellamy sneaking into her bunk, overcome with desire, pressing a palm over her mouth to silence her protests. Tearing her clothes. Having his way with her. She tries and fails to fight him off, eventually succumbs to his strength. She comes so hard she has to bite into her forearm to keep from crying out.

The next day, the marks have purpled, and despite the heat, she keeps her sleeves tugged down to her wrists. The sloshiness and meat-hunger of the previous day has waned slightly, but the inappropriate thoughts about Bellamy remain.

She tries to avoid him all day, which is difficult, because it’s his job to be everywhere, helping everyone, doing everything. She knows that, but today it feels like he’s following her. It irritates her. By noon, she snaps.

“Can’t I go one hour without seeing your stupid face?”

He freezes mid-lift of some heavy piece of machinery, puts it down and stands up straight, wiping his palms off on a rag and looking at her confusedly. A wide ring of sweat covers the neckline of his t-shirt. His hair is extra messy today, soaked at his hairline and curling into perfect little swirls against his skin. A heated flush has risen high on his cheeks. Smudges of dirt coat his face and hands. She tracks a bead of sweat from below his ear down his neck, where it settles in the divot of his collarbone.

“There a problem, princess?”

And then there’s the whole ‘princess’ thing. It drives her fucking _nuts._

“Yes there’s a problem. You’re following me. You’ve been following me since yesterday. You think I haven’t noticed?”

He glances around as if looking for someone else to witness how crazy she’s being.

“You came over here,” he says. “I was helping Monty with the generator, _all_ the way over here, and you came from _all_ the way over there —” He points to the south side of Arkadia. “— to yell at me for following you.”

She throws her hands up. “Yes, you get it. Now stop it.” Then she turns on her heel and walks away.

Jasper goes around telling everyone about a party he’s planning for later that evening. Clarke is nervous about it, in part because it takes her hours to realize her irritation with Bellamy might be slightly unfounded, and he may in fact have not been following her. Maybe she’s just been thinking about him too much.

So when night falls and Jasper brews some jobi tea, Clarke is one of the first in line for a cup. She downs it in a few gulps, then goes to the back of the line to get a second, resentful that she’s kind of the leader of this entire place, and she has to wait her turn in line like everyone else. Like her irritation with Bellamy, it’s a thought that feels like it strikes from nowhere, some place far outside of her, and she wishes her bad mood would go away already.

By the time she’s downing her second cup, she feels much calmer. Two is probably enough, she thinks. Maybe too much, since she’s never come to one of these things before. It occurs to her: she can have sex. She’s perfectly capable of getting laid. She’s Wanheda, for godsake. Back when, she used to fuck whoever looked at her the right way. That feels so long ago, though. She feels like a different person, one guided by the mind rather than the body. But now, for some reason, possibly out of neglect, her body is screaming at her to get fucked. A spark has been lit inside her, a pilot light burning every inch of her skin, and if she doesn’t find something to put it out, she’s sure it will consume her.

She starts scoping out the party looking for potentials. Looks don’t matter as much as the ability to keep a low profile. She knows how getting wasted at a party and fucking some loudmouth steel jockey would make her look. Word travels fast. It would take no time to tarnish her reputation.

Bellamy, thankfully, is nowhere to be found. This isn’t really his scene anyway, because he doesn’t like fun. Niylah is helping Jasper with bartending, and anyway Clarke heard she took a vow of celibacy. There’s Jasper, but that would probably make things weird. Monty, Harper, Monty _and_ Harper, which would be super fun, but they don’t seem like the type for a guest star. Raven probably doesn’t swing her way. Same with Miller. Murphy, though. Murphy would be perfect. Quick and dirty, wouldn’t want to talk about it, wouldn’t catch any feelings. One and done and walk away.

She looks for him but he’s not around, and she realizes that she hasn’t actually seen him in a long time. In Polis, maybe, with Emori. Damn.

From behind her, too close to her ear, voice lifting above the music, Bellamy says, “Looking for someone?”

She closes her eyes and breathes deeply through her nose, grits her teeth to keep from turning around and punching him. When she does turn around, he doesn’t take a step back like a normal human, stays rooted in her personal space like an asshole. She could take a step back but she doesn’t. It’s the principle of the thing.

“What did I say about following me?”

“I was invited same as everyone else. You’re the one standing here alone looking around like you’re ready to snipe somebody.”

“I’m busy. Leave me alone.” They might be on good terms now but she’s feeling all the antagonism toward him that she used to, back when they first landed.

“Are you drunk?”

She doesn’t know how he can tell. She lifts her hands to look at them and they blur when she moves. A wave of heat washes over her. It brings her under. She notices that her breasts ache. This morning, she could barely fit her bra over them, and all day her clothes have felt too tight.

“I told you to leave me alone.”

“You’re drunk.”

She finally walks away from him, because it’s suddenly too hot and she needs some air.

“Your face is red,” he says, following her.

“Go away.”

“I know what you’re doing.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re looking to get laid.”

They’ve just made it outside, and she stops short. He nearly runs into her. “Shut _up.”_

When she tries to move away from him, he circles to her front and impedes her path, puts a hand on her waist. It threatens to sear her, ignite the simmering heat under her skin. He steps a little closer and she doesn’t move away. The night air is cool, but it’s not enough. “Why didn’t you say something, princess? All you had to do was ask.”

“I’m not asking _you_ for anything.”

“It all makes sense now. You’re irritable, hungry, horny — you’re starting your period.”

She’s suddenly overcome with an urge to bite him. Not in a sexy way, but a mean one, for suggesting something so ridiculous. So _disrespectful._ “I don’t get periods, I —” She stops, counts. It’s been five years. “Oh, my god.”

“O didn’t have an IUD, so she got them. This is how she always used to act a few days before.”

She hates herself for the image his words immediately conjure in her brain: Octavia, young and scared and alone, itching out of her skin; Bellamy, doing everything he can for her within his means, including the things he shouldn’t do. Teaching her everything she needs to know. Touching her, maybe, to show her how, to ease the ache. She can see the empty longing in him, to get back whatever it was he lost since coming to the ground, a thing he can never tell anyone. Maybe it started with guilt and shame and necessity and turned into something much different, a kind of intimacy Clarke will never, can never, know.

“I’m not asking,” she says again, but now she sounds less certain.

He puts his other hand on her waist, steps so close she has to lift her chin to look at him.

“I am,” he says.

He wraps his hands behind her, tucks them under her shirt, digs his fingers into the small of her back and massages the muscle there. She makes a sound somewhere between a moan and a yelp, falls into his arms, head pressed against his chest, gripping his shirt in her fists. She didn’t realize the tension she carried in her lower back, the heaviness that’s clung around her middle for days now. Each rapid exhale drags a whimper out of her throat that makes her feel ashamed.

“Okay.” She offers a little nod. Tomorrow she’ll tell herself the tea had made her weak. “Yeah, okay.”

He takes her hand and guides her to the edge of camp, a dark corner behind a lean-to. He pushes her against the sheet metal and presses his lips to hers. It’s been a long time since she’s been with a man; she forgot how big their mouths feel, how demanding they can be. Bellamy is no exception. He kisses like he’s fighting for something. She can’t feel any heart in it, only blind desire, but not the kind she’s used to. She usually feels wanted for her body, a physical appeal. But what Bellamy wants from her is different. Cerebral. He wants to help. Make her feel good. Provide for her. The mind of Bellamy Blake is a dark thing she is both hesitant and eager to explore. His tongue in her mouth presents more questions than it answers.

When he trails harsh kisses down her neck, she gulps in air, asks, “Will you —” but can’t form words.

“Anything,” he says.

“Hold me down.”

She can feel his smile forming against her throat. “Should’ve known.”

He takes her by the hip and spins her around, pushes her until her breasts and hips are pressed against the wall, her head turned to the side. He grabs each of her wrists and brings them up above her head, moves them to one of his big hands, and pins them to the sheet metal. It’s colder back here; she can see her breath flood out in clouds from her lips.

The jobi tea, which normally relaxes her, only serves to max out her sensitivity. She can feel every thread of her clothing rub against her, Bellamy’s body heat seeping into her back. He sweeps her hair aside with his free hand and drags sloppy kisses down her neck, bites the juncture of her shoulder. She nearly shouts, but stops herself just in time; an aborted whine comes out instead.

“You a screamer?” Bellamy says in her ear. “Need me to gag you?”

She shakes her head. “I’ll —” She swallows. “I’ll be good.”

He lets out a dark little laugh like he’s won something. “Knew you’d be fun.”

“You’ve thought about this?”

“For a long time.”

Knowing that breaks her remaining shred of resolve. He’s wanted her this whole time. He never made it known until she needed him. He was waiting.

He cups her breast lightly over her shirt. Even that hurts, but he seems to know already, only massages gently while he continues kissing her neck. He flicks his thumb over her nipple and it sends a shudder through her entire body. An ache follows it, actual pain, tight tension in her belly that makes her knees weak. She feels like she’s lost control of her body.

As if reading her mind, he says, “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

She can only nod in response, allows a fraction of the tension coursing through her to vanish, and finds he’s right — his arm is strong against her belly, hand firm on her wrists.

He deftly unbuckles her belt, unbuttons her pants, slides his hand into her underwear. When his finger grazes her slit, she’s sure her skin will melt off her bones. His fingertip glides over her without friction.

“You’re so wet for me,” he says.

He saves her from throwing some snark in reply by fingering her in earnest: two inside her, calluses of his hand grinding against her clit. Exactly what she needed. She struggles against his grip, fingertips numbing; he presses her harder against the wall.

“Not letting go until you come.” His breath is ragged, voice gritted out like rusted gears. He grinds his hips against her ass, where she can feel the firm hardness of his cock. Little squeaking sounds fall out of her throat which she tries to silence.

She feels her climax building quickly, forces it back down, not because she wants this to last, but because she’s not ready to face him again after this, when everything will have changed, when she’ll have to walk back to her bunk sweaty and soaked, and go to bed alone. When she’ll wake up the next morning and pretend this didn’t happen.

She can’t stave it off for long. Her head falls back against his shoulder. She loses control of herself, pushes her ass back, rides his hand. He picks up the pace, finger-fucks her harder and faster. Her thighs start to shake, knees buckling.

“Almost there,” he says. “Come on, sweetheart, come for me, let it go.”

Her head feels light. She can’t drag in a full breath. She’s going to fall apart. It rises, rises, hovers right at the edge —

And breaks. She starts to cry out, but the hand holding her wrist claps down over her mouth. Her knees give out but Bellamy keeps her upright. A shudder courses through her body. Her cunt pulses and squeezes around his fingers. She lets herself shout into his palm. The tea warps her perception of time; it feels like she’s coming for ages, like her organs are sliding out of her body one by one. Like she’s being emptied of every tiny ache and pain that haunts her.

The feeling ebbs away. Bellamy lowers the hand covering her mouth. She takes a deep breath, then another. He’s pulled his fingers out of her and is gently petting her now, rubbing lightly over her clit until she twitches and writhes, then he slips his hand out of her pants entirely.

The moment she was dreading approaches. She finds her footing, precarious as it is, and he loosens his grip on her. She turns around slowly, leans against the shed and lazily buttons her pants. He sucks his fingers into his mouth. She hates how hot that is.

“Can I…” she begins, gesturing vaguely to the bulge in his pants — the sizable, inviting-looking bulge — but can’t figure out the rest of the question. He knows.

“Not tonight. Tonight, you need sleep.”

She has nothing left in her to fight him. “Okay.”

He squats down, his back to her, and says, “Come on.”

“What?”

He taps his shoulders. “Get on. I’ll take you back to your bunk.”

She’s drunk, spent, and now Bellamy Blake is offering her a piggyback ride. Why not. She climbs on his back and he lifts her easily. Her arms are wrapped around his neck. As they walk past the main entrance, partygoers are straggling out. The rumor mill is going to churn tomorrow — Bellamy carrying Clarke on his back, straight for her bunk. She doesn’t care. They’ve thought worse of her.

She closes her eyes and presses her nose and mouth against his neck, smells him. He smells like sunlight in early spring. Can’t help herself: she kisses him too, tastes the salt-sweat of his skin. They’ve made it past the crowd now, and she keeps kissing him, nibbles his ear. He says, “If you’re not careful, I’m going to drop you and fuck you right on the ground.”

“I dare you,” she finds herself saying.

He makes a frustrated growl, hikes her further up on his hips, and walks faster.

They crash into her bunk and he slams the door shut behind him. There’s barely room for one person in here let alone two. His teeth are sinking into her neck, his hands under her shirt. She’s palming his erection over his pants. He grips her hair and pulls her away from him. Moonlight shines through the slats of her window. His lips are red and wet; her face burns from his stubble.

“Later,” he says, breathing heavily. “We’ll do this later.”

“I want it now.”

“I’m not gonna be that guy.”

“What guy?”

“The guy that takes advantage of a girl because she’s drunk and horny. I did my part. I helped you out. You still want me when you wake up tomorrow, we’ll talk, but — I don’t think you will.”

Something about the way he says it stings her. He thinks she only wants this because she’s hormonal and drank too much jobi tea. He thinks she’s not attracted to him, or doesn’t actually like him. How could he believe that? After everything they’ve been through?

“Okay,” she says, the third fight she’s lost tonight, but she won’t lose the next. “But you’re staying here.”

He raises his eyebrows, glances around. “Where?”

She nods to the bed. It’s narrow, but they can fit. Better than what he sleeps on anyway, the cots in the barracks, all lined up, no privacy. She runs her hand up his chest. “I want you to hold me.”

“I can do that,” he says softly. He takes a seat at the edge of her bed, chin lifted as if to watch her undress. She tugs off her jacket, hangs it on the peg by the door. Lifts the hem of her tank, pulls off her bra. She watches his eyes fall to her chest. He bites his lip, palms his crotch as he trails down the rest of her body. Shoes, socks, pants come off next. She’s left in just her underwear. She feels self-conscious because of what she now understands is bloating, but the way he’s looking at her, like he’s never been more turned on in his life, brings her confidence back.

“Your turn,” she says.

He pulls off his shirt, tosses it in the pile with her clothes. He’s efficient with the rest, and when his pants come off, she looks at the tent in his briefs, asks, “Sure I can’t help you with that?”

“Not tonight.”

She climbs into bed with him, her back to his chest, each on their sides in the shape of parallel Cs, the only way they’ll both fit. He pulls the rough wool blanket over them, brushes her hair away from her neck and kisses a line to her shoulder. Her skin still feels too tight on her body.

“Will you give me another before I fall asleep?” she asks.

She feels a light huff against the back of her neck. “Greedy.”

“Horny.”

“Both.”

He slides his hand down her side, into her underwear, fingers her slow and sweet, completely unlike before. She doesn’t know how he can stand it, after everything that’s happened tonight, not getting off. If she had even an ounce more of her usual wits, she’d straddle his hips and ride him until they woke up the whole camp with her screams.

She’s still soaked from before. His middle finger circles her clit in a quick, even motion, all business. In just minutes she’s panting and squirming, pressing her face into her pillow. She makes a choked sound when she comes, not as hard as earlier, but somehow more satisfying. When she climbs down, her muscles are loose and relaxed. She thinks she can finally fall asleep.

“Good girl,” he says, “so good for me,” and she should be mad at that, she should hate it, but she’s too tired, can only close her eyes and sink into the praise.

 

* * *

 

She wakes up the next morning in agonizing pain, as if something is trying to drill itself out of her stomach from the inside. It’s not bad enough to scream, but she’s having trouble breathing through it, can only manage to writhe and whimper. She has enough room on the bed to do this, which means Bellamy is gone. Figures.

She doesn’t remember her first period very well, but it definitely didn’t hurt like this. When the pain abates slightly, she stumbles into the tiny bathroom attached to her quarters, barely large enough to stand. There’s only a small bloodstain in her underwear, just the beginning. It’ll soon be much worse, and she needs to find something to stopper or absorb the blood. She wonders if anyone else’s IUD has expired yet, and if so, what they use.

She comes out of the bathroom and sits on the chair in the corner, one made of metal so she can’t stain it. She puts her head in her hands, too tired and hurting and hungover to think straight.

The door opens. Her head snaps up.

Bellamy walks in with a bag in hand and puts it on the bed. “So I got you —”

“You came back.”

He glances behind his shoulder at her. “I was only gone for a few minutes. I didn’t think you’d be awake yet.”

She stands, her arm over her stomach as she crosses the small room to see what he brought her. She’s still mostly naked; she doesn’t care. His eyes fall to her belly. “It started already, huh.”

She nods once. It’s mostly a wince.

The first thing he pulls out of the bag is a pile of figure-eight-shaped cloths, padded and sewn together. That solves the staining issue, then. “I got these from Niylah. She has a whole store of them, and she can show you how to wash them. Apparently it’s becoming a big issue around here.”

Next he pulls out a rectangular patch of fur with what looks like electronic solar panels on the underside, and a wire hanging from the corner. “Raven made this.” He flicks a switch at the end of the cord. “It’s heated.”

She takes it and sits on the bed and wraps it around her stomach, waits for it to warm up.

Next come a bottle of pills, “from your mom,” he says, then a covered plate of breakfast, “so you don’t have to go out,” then, smiling, a little square of wax paper tied with string. He hands it to her. She tugs at it, opens the paper, and —

“Oh my god, Bellamy, you didn’t — how did you find this?”

It’s a jagged square of chocolate. She hasn’t had chocolate in years, and she’s never had _real_ chocolate in her life. On the Ark it was fake, some soy equivalent. But this. This had to have come from real cocoa beans. As far as she knows, there’s not even a grounder trade route that exports such a thing.

“I pulled some favors,” he says.

She breaks off a piece — just a tiny one, she wants to savor it — and lays it on her tongue, closes her eyes and feels it melt. It’s the best thing she’s ever tasted.

When she opens her eyes again, he’s smiling, grinning in fact, and she’s never seen him look like that, so happy, at least not when she’s around.

“Try some,” she says, holding it out for him.

“I can’t. It’s yours.”

“Please. You need to know what this tastes like.”

He sighs as if put out by the request, breaks off the smallest corner he can manage, and eats it.

“Oh, wow,” he says. “That’s amazing.”

“Why did you do all this for me?”

He shrugs one shoulder, looks serious for the briefest second before bouncing back into a smile. “I’m just a great person I guess.”

She shoves at his stomach and he catches her wrist, steps closer, runs his hand up her arm and to the nape of her neck, where he digs his thumb and forefinger in and massages gently. “What else do you need?”

The blanket is warm now and already the pain is dissipating. She lets her head fall forward and moans. “Never leave.”

“Gotta. Sinclair needs me to run a few errands.”

“Will you come back?”

His hands stop moving. She glances up at him.

“You want me to?” he asks. “For what?”

She looks at his mouth. “You know for what.”

“Okay.” He nods a little. “I can do that.” He takes a step backward, toward the door.

“Hey, wait. You’re forgetting something,” she says before she can lose her nerve. She stands from the bed, parts reluctantly with her blanket, and gets in his space. She lifts up on her toes and kisses him. He tastes like chocolate.

“You’re killing me,” he says when they part.

She steps away. He looks like he wants to follow.

“Soon,” he says, almost to himself. “I’ll be back soon.”

 

* * *

 

Whatever pills Abby provided do the trick: Clarke is not only not in any pain, she’s also not conscious for most of the day, wakes up only to use the bathroom and pick at the food Bellamy brought, then falls immediately back asleep. It’s night when Bellamy returns. She wakes up briefly to make sure she doesn’t have to fight for her life for whatever reason, tries to force her eyes open to watch him undress but can’t quite make it. She dozes off again, comes to when he crawls behind her, holds her like he did the night before.

“What do you need tonight?” he asks, kisses her shoulders, her neck. It feels like they’re in a safe little bubble together, where nothing bad can ever happen, and they don’t have to worry about war or violence or survival.

“I want you to use me,” she finds herself saying, surprised the words can slip so easily out of her. She turns and looks up at him. “You like me when I’m like this, don’t you? Weak. Needing you.”

She imagines exactly this but on the Ark: Octavia trapped, sleeping off the pain. Bellamy coming home after a long day, asking her what she needs. Clarke wants to be that for him, whatever he wants her to be. That’s the draw, she thinks, the reason they can’t seem to rid themselves of the other: it’s not their strengths that bring them together, but their weaknesses. Their darkest parts complementary.

“It’s okay,” she says. “You can admit it.”

He nods once, just barely. She can only tell because of the moonlight glinting in his eyes.

“Then do it. Take what you want from me.”

He hesitates. Then, seeming to come to a resolution in his mind, gets out of bed. He takes a towel from the bathroom and spreads it out under her hips, crawls on top of her and kisses her. Pulls her underwear off. Settles between her legs. Presses his tongue lightly against her swollen, tender cunt. Even the barest touch threatens to hurt.

He circles slowly around her clit, dips down and runs up and down her opening. It feels like touching a bruise — only the potential for pain, not quite there yet. He sucks a finger into his mouth and back out, slides it inside her and she makes a broken, shocked noise.

“That okay?” he asks.

She nods, runs her fingers through his hair. “Feels different. I’ve never —” She gets interrupted by the addition of a second finger.

She’s still keyed-up from last night, starts to feel the beginnings of a climax already, or maybe he’s just that good. She pushes it down but he just goes harder, like he’s searching for it inside her and trying to pull it out against her will. Her period feels like an alien thing between her legs, throbbing and aching, more sensitive than it’s ever been.

He sucks on her clit; she can feel his teeth graze it. She imagines him covered in blood. The blood of the deer they killed the other day. Her blood, down his chin, throat, hand. Her walls begin to shudder around his fingers. She curls up, both hands holding his head in place, shouts loud enough to break the rumor mill tomorrow. He doesn’t let up, drags it out of her until she feels emptied.

He lifts off of her. His mouth is red and shining in the moonlight. It’s all down his chin, throat, even a little on his chest.

“Kiss me,” she says, feeling wild, and he does. He tastes like copper and cunt, a combination more satisfying than the chocolate.

His cock glides against her, already hard, bumping at her entrance. It hurts so much, feels so good. He seems to remember her request from last night, takes her wrists and holds them above her head, shoves his cock into her, all the way to the base in one long, slow movement. She struggles against his grip, cries out in pain and pleasure. The acrid smell of copper stings her nose like she’s drowning in her own blood. He fucks her slowly at first, then picks up speed. He sucks on her breasts. He twists a nipple. It’s agonizing. She wants to cry. She loves it. She has no control over herself anymore.

He turns her over onto her knees, pulls her wrists behind her back and holds them there, so her face is pressed into the pillow. Her shoulders strain. She can feel blood trickling slowly down her thighs. He pounds into her, so hard that the bed slams into the wall. She imagines an audience gathering right outside her door. He’s silent, but she can’t stop moaning, throat nearly raw.

He lifts her up so her back is to his chest, wraps his other hand on her neck, still wet from fingering her. There’ll be a bloody handprint left around her throat. He squeezes lightly, and she says, “Harder.”

He tightens his grip until she can’t take in air. He fucks her hard and fast, sacrifices his grip on her wrists to bring his hand to her front and finger her again. Her head feels light, vision fuzzy, while her body pushes forward, so close to coming she can taste it.

She thinks she’s about to pass out, and he releases his hand on her throat. She falls forward as she gulps in air. He pulls out. She comes so hard she screams, can feel it all rush out of her, blood and come, soaking herself and him and the bed. She shudders and spasms; her cries get lodged in her throat. Before she can recover, he flips her on her back again. She catches sight of his dick, glistening and stained red like his mouth. He folds her in half at the back of her knees, fucks her even harder.

“Come in me, Bell,” she says, calling him what _she_ calls him. It breaks something in him, she can feel it, whatever shred of reservation he had remaining. “Bell, please, want to feel you come inside me.”

“Fuck,” he breathes. He leans over her, presses his nose and mouth into the crook of her neck. His movements turn shallow and rapid. She can feel his cock widen, throb, his muscles tense under her palms.

He groans as he comes, a hand gripping her hip so hard it’ll bruise. His body loosens, stills above her. He breathes. She rubs a hand over his back, kisses his sweaty temple. He pulls out, rolls over onto his side. She doesn’t want to see the damage they made to the sheets, probably the wall too, chipped plaster. Not to mention each other. The sheets probably look like someone got murdered.

“I’d be okay with this,” he says after a long moment of silence. He sounds shy, nervous. The blood is starting to dry and turn her skin tight. “If this were a monthly thing. Blow off some steam with each other.”

She’s glad it’s dark so he can’t see the you’re-such-a-fucking-idiot face she’s making at him. It’s so much more than that. They both know it.

“Monthly, huh,” she says. “Gotta wait for the full moon to fuck Bellamy Blake.”

“You know what I mean.”

She stands from the bed. Gravity does its job; his come and her blood dribble out of her, down her thighs, rolling quickly toward her knees. “Let’s get in the shower.”

The shower is a tiny box in her bathroom with its own heater that makes water vaguely lukewarm for about ten minutes. It’s a tight squeeze. Clarke’s knees are like liquid, but it feels ridiculously good to get clean after all that. They work in silence, bodies easily moving around each other, like they always do, whether hunting or fighting, or fucking now, apparently. He washes her hair and massages her scalp. They rinse all the blood away. When they’re done, he presses a brief kiss to her lips, but she forces it deeper, and they make out until the water turns cold.

After, they strip the bed and re-make it with clean sheets and blankets. While they work, Clarke asks, “What happens if we want to blow off steam between lunar cycles?”

“Plenty of guns around here and things that need shot.” He shakes a pillow into a clean case. The other one had a bloody handprint on it.

“This is it, then. This is the only reason we can ever fuck.”

“I don’t know if Ark royalty got to skip health class, but sometimes sex turns into babies.”

“So?”

He stares at her, frozen, pillow only halfway in the case. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying there are only like, four thousand humans left in the entire universe. We should maybe be working on fixing that if we want to survive as a species.”

“So you want this to be a...thing.”

“A thing. Two things. A lot of things.”

“A lot of things?”

“Fun things. Feel-good things. Eventual baby things.”

He stares into space as if trying to wrap his brain around it. “Eventual baby things.”

She crawls into bed, curls into the covers. “Get in bed.”

The mattress dips and he slots himself behind her, arm over her waist, knees bent at the same angle as hers, nose and mouth pressed against the back of her neck.

“You want to have a baby with me,” he says, smug.

She’s glad he can’t see the stupid smile she makes in response. “We can talk about it more tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is a two-part series, but the next fic is not a sequel. It goes back in time and focuses on Bellamy and Octavia. I meant to post them both at once, but I'm not sure when I'll get the next one done, so I thought I'd go ahead and toss this one into the abyss.
> 
> If you enjoyed this fic, you can [reblog the photoset](https://bettsfic.tumblr.com/post/180012583712/red-wings-the-100-canon-divergent-pwp).


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